The Realm

Yesterday, 9-11 is a bad day not just because of the obvious but because that was the day we had services for my Dad at the cemetery. I wrote this poem for my Dad and gave it to him one year for Christmas.

There is one favorite memory I will always cherish from my childhood. It is that age-old game of baseball. I remember stepping out on to the field for the first time in my new uniform and those brand new cleats that I had to have. The grass always seemed to be freshly cut even though most of the time it wasn’t. The dirt on a field always seemed to be placed just right for a great game of ball. The lines of chalk neatly outlining the diamond were ready for the first runner to follow. I loved the smell of baseball. It is one of the smells that cannot be described; you just know that smell. I played ball from t-ball through junior high school. I learned all there was to learn about the game from my Dad. From rally caps to game day losses, my memory of this game will never be forgotten. I will remember this game especially because I could look in from the field and see my Dad in the dugout. My Dad was the head coach of our team. He treated everyone fairly including me, his son. He was a great coach. He brought our team to victory one season. We had an undefeated season and went on to play in the tournament. But as long as my Dad was the coach every season was a victory. My Dad taught me to always give the game my best effort and win or lose; the game would give me back all I gave and more. My Dad was right. My Dad, my head baseball coach is my hero. It is not because he was my coach but because he is my Dad. I hope and pray I can be as good a dad and head coach to my son.

Love,
Your Son the Left Fielder

Labels: poetry, writing